Theria’s joy, too, was full. The tie between Dryas and herself was very strong and his happiness closely touched her.
But, oh, the further marvel! Theria was to go up to the Precinct to see the sacred rite. She was older now. Had she not already dedicated her girlhood toys to Artemis? Soon she would be a woman and for women there were certain rare occasions when they might visit the temple place.
The new white himation which she was to wear she hung on a peg in her room. Gazing at this, fingering it, she could almost realize she was about to go to the Precinct. The joy caught strongly at her throat. Every day she begged her mother to name over each temple that she was to see, each treasury, each statue that flanked the Sacred Way until Melantho clapped hands over her ears and ordered her out of the room.
Theria never moved quietly about the house. She always ran or skipped. Now as she ran, she sang aloud or, leaping into her swing in the court, she swept upward like a swallow, until she could see high over the balcony into the second-story rooms. The whole house felt the contagion of her joy.
“I’m to attend little mistress,” boasted Nerea in the kitchen. “By Hermes, the best o’ the festival will be to see her face goin’ into the gates.”
The Strepterion was a festival which like the Pythia came every fourth year. At the Strepterion was performed the sacred drama, “Apollo Killing the Python,” the very same which Dryas had acted in play when a baby, and now he was to act it in earnest.
Midway in the Precinct was built a temporary hut called the Palace of the Snake. And the snake would be there, a marvel of contrivance, his ugly dragon head, with open mouth and teeth, resting on the threshold. Dryas, arrayed as the boy Apollo, must in mimic dance and gesture fight the dragon. A chorus of boys carrying torches would sing the story. Then after the struggle Apollo must lift his silver bow and shoot the dragon. It would die with great writhings and agony—a joy to the crowd.
Presently all the actors would come in solemn, silent procession down the Sacred Way. They would pass out of the gate of the Precinct, through the village, and away on the western road.
Thus would begin a long journey which would take from moon to moon. Symbolically, the actors would journey to the land of the Hyperboreans beyond the north wind. Actually they would trace an ancient way of pilgrimage, the Pythian Way, to the Vale of Tempè.
At Tempè Dryas, as the Sacred Boy, would gather boughs from a certain famous laurel tree, and bring them home to be woven into crowns for the Pythian victors. For the Pythian festival and games always fell in the same year, a few weeks later than the Strepterion.
All this was to be Dryas’s adventure. He would return to tell of its wonders. He was a dear, companionable boy. Theria knew he would tell her the whole of it.
On the morning of Strepterion she awoke before daybreak and lay in that ecstasy of anticipation which only youth-time knows. Presently dawned the light and showed her her white dress, still hanging ghostly on its peg. She arose and went out into the court-balcony. Here she met Dryas. He, too, had awakened early with the joy of the day.
“Good luck,” she greeted him. “The luck of Loxias.” And he answered piously, “Apollo bless you.”
Between them they roused the whole family.
At sunrise Dryas must be clothed in his ceremonial robes. He stood in the court near the Hestia hearth where all the family could see him, where the slaves could gather proudly to look on. They brought forth the temple himation, yellow with its border of gold, an ancient, precious thing.
Dreamily, sensitively, Dryas suffered them to put it on him, to unplait his long hair that it might flow over his shoulders in the manner of Apollo. Already he felt upon him the sacred character of the god he was to personate.
Nikander advanced to place the golden laurel crown on Dryas’s head. He came slowly, unlike himself, and in the ceremony spoke only the necessary words—no more. He made sacrifice upon the hearth and then, stumbling a little, stepped back.
It was time to go. The whole family were to walk behind Dryas up to the Precinct. Theria stood hand in hand with her mother. Her eyes were like stars.
“Son,” said Nikander in a low voice, “I cannot go with you now. I will come up in a few moments with Medon. The priests will meet you at the gate.”
“Father—but why?” A troubled look crossed the boy’s rapt face.
“I am not quite well. Just for a moment. I’ll be with you soon, my son.”
Theria darted out and touched his hand.
“Never mind, Daughter,” he said. “Make haste, all of you.”
Obediently the family formed in a sort of procession and left the house.
Oh, the golden sunshine of that early morning! The sweet cool air with the blessing of the stars still upon it! Theria took thirsty draughts of it as she went along.
The cliffs towered nobly about as if in prayer and along their face the mists, white spirits new risen from the vale, came shouldering, sinking, lifting, dreamily alive. So tall are the cliffs at Delphi that they meet the blue and cut off from sight the snowy peak of Parnassos which is back above them.
Now the procession turned the shoulder of a cliff. The Precinct burst into view—the Precinct, a golden and many-hued Elysium lying on the slope above the road within its quadrate wall.
It slanted against the hillside in the sunshine. Theria could see the bright little fanes, the golden tripods, the zig-zag of the Sacred Way dividing it in the midst, and the great Apollo temple at the top. The Precinct seemed to spread itself generously before her sight—all of it at once—as though knowing how dearly she loved it.
Above the Precinct were the cliffs again soaring terribly to the sky.
Now the procession was stopping. It was before the great bronze doors. The doors were opening, showing a glimpse of the wonder place within. Here a company of priests, with the old president or Hosios, received them.
They greeted Dryas. Then—
“But where is Nikander?” they asked.
“He said he would join us,” answered Dryas. “He should be with us by now.”
“We will wait for him,” said the old Hosios.
And so they waited. Moments—a half hour and still Nikander did not arrive. The priests began to stir impatiently. Dryas looked around with anxious eyes.
Theria slipped back among the slaves.
“Baltè,” she said, “he does not come!”
“Hist, little mistress, we must not speak in this place.”
“But, Baltè, perhaps he is ill.”
“Medon is there, and Philo.”
Theria suddenly recalled that her father’s hand when she touched it had been cold as ice. How curiously he had stumbled as he turned from the crowning—an ill omen that. Theria had a sure instinct concerning illness. She knew that her father was in trouble. All the joy of the festival and of the out of doors folded its wings in her heart. She could think only of her father.
Now she was dimly aware that the old Hosios had let open the gates and bade Dryas enter. She caught Baltè’s hand.
“I’m going back home,” she said. “Baltè, come quickly.”
“But, little mistress, what a crazy notion is this?”
“I’ll be back for the festival. Oh, I’ll be back in time. But I must meet Father.”
“But, little mistress——”
“Baltè, come at once!”
And Baltè, who never before had obeyed her little girl, came without a word.
They hurried back along the road. Nikander did not meet them on the way. Theria was the more terrified. Entering the house she heard music—the music of the physician. She ran to her father’s room.
He lay gasping upon the bed, his fine face drawn like an old, old man’s. His eyes, haunted with pain, turned toward Theria, but he did not speak; perhaps he could not. The physician in the corner sang nervously the healing ode of Apollo. Medon was clasping his hands.
“Oh, Missy, Missy,” he moaned. “The doctor gave the medicine and it did no good. Now he’s playin’ the music. When he does that—it’s the end—the end!”
The room was suffocating.
“Air,” thought Theria. “Father must have air.”
She stamped her foot at the physician. “Stop that wailing!” she commanded. “Stop it at once.”
The physician was glad enough to obey her. If Nikander died it could be the daughter’s fault.
Then swiftly, businesslike, Theria had them carry her father, bed and all, into the street and sent Baltè for hot water which she applied. She was trembling in very childishness of grief. Sometimes she flung herself upon her father, kissing him, begging him to live. But nevertheless she kept on with her simple remedies—remedies she had used before.
At last, so gradually that she could not tell when it began, the pain abated. Nikander’s eyes grew clear and his breath came even once more.
“Daughter!” he spoke at last. “My darling girl.”
And Baltè, putting down the steaming pot of water, gave a shout of joy.
Meanwhile up in the Precinct the festival was going forward, but Theria had forgotten it.
At length Nikander was strong enough to be carried back into the aula where he fell asleep. Then it was that Theria heard the sound of pipes and shouting in the street. Instinctively she ran upstairs to the window.
The sacred drama was over. Here came the actors—now a happy, laughing rout. It was the custom that the Tempè procession leave the city in haste so as to out-distance all evil. First Dryas came running in the beautiful leaps which Greek racers used. His hair was streaming in the wind. He held aloft his silver bow in triumph and great joy. Then came the swift boy chorus with backward burning torches and beauty of fluttering garments, then the sacred women having an awkward time of it to keep the boys in sight. And the crowd laughing at them and shouting:
“Good luck for the journey. The luck of Loxias.”
So shouting, laughing, the picture of joyous life, they disappeared down the road.
Ah, there was the last gleam of Dryas’s silver bow!
“At least,” thought Theria, “when Dryas comes back, he will have Father to greet him instead of—instead——”
Then with tender happiness—or was it the bitterness of missing her one festival—she hid her face, weeping.